


I'm Yours

by PickledTeeth



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blossoming Romance, Clemens Point, Drinking, Fishing, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, burdock root, but condensed into four chapters, ish, just all round good fluff, slow burn i guess, wrote every chapter in a feverish state so we'll see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-13 10:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21493177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PickledTeeth/pseuds/PickledTeeth
Summary: The first was relief.The second a thank you.The third a missed opportunity.And the fourth just a misstep that led to something great.------Or, the three times Kieran could have kissed Arthur, and the one time he did.
Relationships: Kieran Duffy/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 202





	1. we win some or learn some

**Author's Note:**

> I have a really bad habit of starting new WIPs on top of my older ones, but do not worry! All my older WIPs will be finished!  
It's mainly due to my works automatically deleting after a month. 
> 
> Anyways, enjoy the story!

Kieran knew he was starving.

Quite obvious to even a person who has never seen starvation before. With how his ribs stuck out of his skin like a diseased animal. How his stomach seemed to curl in on itself every single damn time he smelt that stew being prepared. How he salivated at the mouth at even the smallest scrap that dare dropped to the ground.

Pitiful.

Kieran knew they tied him to a tree right in front of their food caravan on purpose. Where they keep all the fruits and vegetables balanced precariously against each other. Keep the cans of corn and beans stacked on top of other assorted metal provisions, the slabs of meat pressed together like sheets of paper. That stew the large man always made (clad in moth-eaten woolen sweater and black navy pants) had a nasty habit of wafting over to where he stood hunched over, with his hands tied behind his back. It smelt heavenly, though he heard multiple accounts of how blandly it tasted, how there wasn't any seasoning, how even a dog wouldn't eat it. He could only swallow the copious amounts of saliva that gathered in his mouth from the smell, and listen to everybody complain about the food.

Food. 

That's something he's seen less of nowadays. His stomach has sunken in since his time away from the O’Driscolls. Granted, his last gang barely fed him, though Kieran would take a mouldy piece of bread over completely nothing. His cheeks have hollowed, nearly skeletal, his collarbone pokes out of his skin, and he’s scared that if he ever ate anything again, it’ll just come back up. The gang force-feeds him water to keep him from dying of dehydration, and a few people give him meager amounts of food every now and then. One girl, the red-headed one with plenty of freckles and emerald green eyes, took pity on him after another of the girls gave him a scathing insult, and fed him some luke-warm water from a spotty tin cup. Told him that not everybody in the gang was bad. 

He has a hard time believing that. 

Sighing, Kieran hunches over with his head bowed down, legs shaking nearly as much as a newborn foal. He listens to the camp ruckus all around him. He's grown used to camp life since his forceful joining of them, since he was thrown into that drafty barn up in Colter.

The soft clinks of spoons in bowls as some ate at the rickety table near the entrance of the camp reach his ears from where he's tied up. The sniffles of people by the campfire. The snorts of the gang horses as they chuffed away at dusty hay. And sometimes, that too old gramophone Dutch uses to blast screechy opera music. It always sends a headache down his sore, hanging neck. 

Kieran feels a bulk of a shadow pass over him, and he raises his head, just in time to catch the dark figure trying to sneak past his peripheral. They have a lit cigar in their mouth, an iron hanging at their hip that shines in the hot afternoon sun, and a spry confidence in their step. Bulky, brawny, decked out in cowboy hat and boots with golden spurs, they walk on an already treaded path towards a cliff edge.   
  
Arthur.   
  
Arthur Morgan. 

Kieran's stomach seizes, and his heart recoils on itself in fear. He recalls hearing the man’s name during conversations between multiple people, different accounts, different tales. Each varied from _good guy Arthur Morgan_ to _downright murderous Arthur Morgan_. Kieran couldn't tell which was true. 

Kieran shudders thinking about the stories he's heard about the Van Der Lindes. Those tales mainly carry scathing hatred towards Dutch, and a certain kind of fear towards Arthur Morgan, whom the O'Driscolls refer to as Dutch's loyal dog.

"_Saw what he done, I did. Horrible thing. Dylan didn't stand a chance against that man." _One of Colm's second-hand men had said one evening over a bottle of booze and a loaded gun aimed towards a barely lit fire, "_His death was p__rolly drawn out real slow." _

Kieran swallows, hard, his brain sending fearful messages and warnings. 

He just had to open his big fat mouth.

“Mister?” He even sounded pitiful, his voice straddling a thin line of fear and hope. Kieran winces internally. A man awaiting death for his heinous crimes would have a shred more dignity than he.

Arthur’s gaze snaps down nearly immediately after the word leaves Kieran’s hushed mouth. That familiar scowl is painted across his face, nose crinkling up and eyebrows pinching together. 

Kieran thinks he’s going to be ignored. 

“Whatchu want?” Turns out, he's wrong. Arthur's voice is gruff and dismissive, as though he hopes his voice will scare Kieran's question away.

Kieran steels himself, grounds himself as he draws his body upwards, back popping and cracking as he does so.

"Can't you spare me any food?" Kieran tries, oh does he try. It’s pitiful, having to beg for food like a beggar in the street. Whatever shred of dignity he had left just flittered away when those words left his mouth. 

Arthur scoffs a laugh, flicks his cigarette down to the ground and stomps it with the heel of his boot. He waits a few seconds before he speaks again with an expression that makes Kieran wish he'd never opened his mouth.

"Don't _grovel_ boy. Give me information."

Grovel. Such a pitiful word. Grovel at ones feet like a sinner with a preacher, like a man about to be put on trial and begging for a lighter sentence, like a man starving and willing to do anything for food.

_Almost_ anything.

"I can't." Kieran mumbles out, voice breaking, "I can't."

Kieran brings himself back down again, hunching his back over until his head nearly touches his knobbed knees. He feels tears work themselves out of his eyes, tears of desperation, and he cannot do anything to stop them. Can't even wipe them away and pretend he wasn't crying like a small child for their momma. 

"I can't give you anything even if I _knew_ anything." Kieran croaks, feels those damn tears work their way down his grimy cheeks and onto the ground at his feet. He really hopes Arthur just shoots him now and saves him the embarrassment of the fierce Van Der Linde gang seeing a supposedly big bad O'Driscoll cry. 

But Arthur, the cruel, _cruel_ man he is, does not draw his gun. 

"Oh but I know you got something," Arthur smirks, the corner of his lip twitching up ever so slightly, "You have that look in your eye. All I see is a desperate man willing to do anything at all to get free."

Kieran swipes his dry tongue over even drier lips. 

"Please-"

"You got some talking to do of your own boy about that old gang of yours before you can even hope to eat."

Kieran hangs his head again despite the protests in his neck, despair washing away what little hope he had left like waves with sand. 

"I said...I told you...I don't know nothing." Kieran's voice breaks near the end, chipping away into actual despair. His throat tightens, almost as if he's about to cry, and that mortifies him even more. 

"That's what I thought." Arthur drawls, a sort of frustrated undertone to his voice. He goes to move away, to step away from the hunched over man before a dripping voice startles both of them into looking towards camp.

"Woah! Hold your horses there."

Both men look up; the only real difference between them is that one holds his head up high like a proud show pony while the other cowers even more like a kicked dog. 

Dutch comes strolling up with a burly man behind him. The man has a large brown overcoat draped on his stocky body, long face half covered in bushy beard, and small brown eyes. He seems fit to play bodyguard, or bouncer at a bar, not here with the Van Der Lindes.

"It seems the-uh, _cat _has caught our friends here tongue." Dutch waves to the man behind him with a ringed hand, and Kieran wonders if Dutch always wears jewellery, "I was thinking Mr. Williamson could have a word."

The man steps forwards with an air of intimidation surrounding him. It seems to work; Kieran definitely feels intimidated and he cowers back against the tree bark. 

"You ready to talk boy?" The man sounds groggy, as though he'd just woken up from a nap. His eyes are alert however, and his body tense and ready to do something, and Kieran realizes that it's the man's real voice.

"I told you mister, I told all of yous, I don't know nothing." Kieran looks to Arthur, a pleading cry for help, "They ain't no friends of mine. Just been ridden with em' for a while-"

Kieran barely has time to finish his sentence when Williamson cuts in suddenly with a menacing step forwards, "_Horseshit_. You see we heard that part so how 'bout you tell the truth?"

Kieran remains silent, though there's a part of him that wants to tell the truth just to have this torture end. But he knows he can't. It would be a death sentence for him, and he knows that someway, somehow Colm would find out it was _him_ that squealed like a stuck pig.

"Dutch what you want me to do?" Williamson growls. To Kieran's horror, it seems he already knows what he wants to do. 

"_Hurt him _so that the next time he opens his mouth, it's too tell us what's going on." 

Bill lurches forwards with his fist poised to strike, and Kieran cowers against the hard bark of the tree and he waits for the blow to come with shut eyelids. He expects a blinding punch to the cheekbone, a punch hard enough to leave a black eye and a sore nose. 

"Who am I kidding.” 

Kieran opens his eyes slowly. Williamson has stepped away from him, watches Dutch with a confused look in his eye. 

“One of O'Driscolls boys couldn't open his mouth, but he'd tell a lie..." Dutch trails off before he casts a glance to Williamson, "Screw it, let's just have some fun."

Kieran barely has enough time to understand what's going on before Dutch makes a scissoring motion with his fingers; "Geld him."

Geld.

Gelding.

Horse.

Kieran's thoughts are going a mile a minute and all he can do is blabber out nonsensical words. They geld horses.

Gelding means they cut off...

His pants are hiked down before his mind can even catch up with what Dutch is saying, and then suddenly Bill is there with heated gelding tongues and Dutch is speaking about some sort of messenger who had his balls cut off, but he isn’t listening. He’s more focused on the scathing heat down there.

"They're only balls boy! They'll just cause you trouble in the future."

Something inside Kieran’s brain snaps under the pressure of it all, a primal fear that causes him to shout, "Alright! Alright!"

When they don’t move the gelding tongs away, Kieran tries to shimmy backwards even more. The bark digs into his back and bare legs, and he knows there’s gonna be marks.

“I know where Colm's hidden up." Kieran nearly shuts himself up before he can even speak. 

He realizes with a few seconds of pure terror that he burst like an inflated balloon. Spilt out what little truth he had. He's cracked._ He's cracked_.

Williamson makes a grunt of annoyance and disappointment, but Kieran's happy the heat has melted away from his body.

"He's at Six Point Cabin. And you're right, he don't like you none."

That was an understatement. Colm shouted to the world one evening, drunk off his ass, about how he'd disembowel Dutch if he had the chance, put his guts on display in Blackwater, and throw his head to the Sheriff to get the bounty.

Dead or Alive.

Colm preferred dead.

"I like him even less than I like you, no offense." Kieran shoots that comment Arthur's way, who's been scarily quiet the entire ordeal. Watching like a hawk, watching his boss deal with Kieran in primal torturous ways. 

"None taken." Arthur chuckles. There's a flash of a knife, and for a single, fearful moment, Kieran thinks that he's going to be stabbed in the gut. After all, they got what they wanted. 

But then there's the sound of rope snapping, and the pressure on his wrists let up. He's free.

He's finally free.

Though his wrists are rubbed raw to the point his skin is a nasty pink, and it hurts to even have exposed to the air, Kieran is relieved. 

And Kieran thinks he could kiss Arthur Morgan right at that moment while Arthur threatens his life with the crooked silver knife in his hands.


	2. but i won't hesitate no more

"The horses sir...they ain't doin' so good on account of the movin'." Kieran mumbles under his breath. The horse brush in his hands falls to his side, and Arthur watches as he pats Branwen's neck, "Worried about them is all."

'Tis true, they were not doing the best since the rapid moving of the gang from Horseshoe to Clemens. Branwen's fur is more dull than it has been since his time with the O'Driscolls, The Count is more fussy, Boaz has a cloudy look in his eye that only suggests fatigue, and the carriage horses all walk with more of a limp. No rocks, Kieran checked, and there certainly was no thrush outlining the wall of the hoof. Kieran concludes that it's their shoulders and hips bugging them. They move away and lay their ears back when Kieran goes up to run a hand down their flank to check for ticks, and one cherry red mare even went as far as biting him. 

"Those carriage horses need some medicine." Kieran explains further when he is met with a furrowed gaze, subconsciously rubs at the large bruise on his arm the mare gave him the other day, "Burdock Root. I could whip up somethin' for 'em, a poultice, but I can't leave camp."

Kieran hunches his shoulders in a shrug, "If you ever see any on your travels, couldja pick a few?"

Kieran expects a curt no, a huff of annoyance, even expects Arthur to just walk away from him. Arthur does not.

"Sure. If I see any I could grab em'." Arthur says. He flips open the top on his satchel, peers inside the pouch. Kieran tries hard not to peep into it, despite overwhelming curiosity, though his eyes do cast downwards in time to see a few leafy flowers. They're pink and purple, fresh too, roots still clinging with dirt, and that familiar earthy smell comes whirling out like a train on tracks. It makes his heart ache with longing to just gallop out of camp to find Burdock himself. 

"You-you're serious?" Kieran can't stop the words tumbling from his mouth, and he snaps his jaw shut with an audible _click. _Arthur stares at him, left brow quirking over sunburnt, freckled skin.

"Yes. Why wouldn't I be, boy?" Arthur growls, lets the lid of his satchel flip back down to hide its contents. 

Kieran clears his throat awkwardly, shuffles his feet against the worn-down dirt, dust tickling from under his heeled cowboy boots, "W-Well mister I-uh-just thought you wouldn't want too."

"Because you asked?" Arthur rumbles, hands coming up to rest in the loops of his belt. Kieran sighs, nods almost sheepishly, fingers picking at pieces of dried clumps of dirt stuck on his horse brush.

"I only agreed since it concerns the horses." Arthur drawls with a nod towards the backs of the grazing herd. Winchester is among them, her chestnut sorrel coloured coat nestled in right beside a chuffing Old Boy, "If it weren't, we wouldn't be havin' this conversation."

"Ah, I see." Kieran says, no matter however hurt his heart feels at the moment, "In any case, thank you Arthur."

Arthur looks surprised that Kieran is thanking him. He does not speak though, and instead turns on his heel and walks away towards his tent, hands leaving his belt to grab at a journal tucked away in his satchel. 

Kieran hangs his head, stares at the ground under his toes. Fights to keep the embarrassed blush from clambering onto his face. 

"Well that was a disaster, huh bud?" Kieran teases to Branwen, who's taken to chewing on his hitching post, flecks of wood chipping off, "Big disaster."

When he gets back to brushing out the burrs entangled in Branwen's thick mane, he can't shake the feeling of being watched.

\-----------------

It's the very next day when Kieran is approached by the exact same person he thought would completely ignore his request altogether. 

He's sitting at the scout campfire, watching the embers burn brightly against the darker coloured wood. It's evening, puffy clouds floating against the vast expanse of blue, purples, and dark pinks. The trees sway gently in a cool breeze, and the sun barely kisses the smooth surface of Flat Iron Lake. 

The camp is lively; Jack plays by the lake with a fallen stick from the large oak tree, touching the surface of the clear water. Abigail stands nearby with a steaming bowl in her hands, Sadie right beside her. They talk, they laugh, and Kieran wonders how they could act like old friends after they've only known each other for five months. Pearson gazes upon everybody with a proudness only a chef could have, and Kieran catches Ms. Grimshaw sneaking a bit of crushed seasoning into her bowl. 

Kieran smiles, pretends he doesn't see, and returns to his meal. _It's peaceful to be by myself_, he tries to reason with a brain that longs to be with everybody at the main campfire, to be talking and swapping stories like trading cigarette cards. To be right in the action, to tell his own stories and receive praise for a bravery he could never show. 

Kieran swallows his mouthful of beef and carrots, bland and tasteless that leaves a celery-like aftertaste. He actually knows why Grimshaw and Karen were complaining about it back at Horseshoe. Kieran can't blame Pearson for not having the proper spices to spruce up the broth, though that is why they have trips to town for a reason.

"Arthur's back!" Mary-Beth calls out in delight, a smile gracing her freckled joyous face. And when Kieran looks back towards the bushed entrance of the camp, Arthur strolls in on Winchester, the red Suffolk Punch strutting proudly with her short stubby neck in the air. Arthur has something clasped in his one fist, though Kieran can't see it from where he sits on a rickety stool.

"Evening Mary-Beth!" Arthur shouts back with as much delight as she had, and Kieran sees Mary-Beth smile over her bowl of stew. A strike of jealousy burns through Kieran, sears his emotion of contempt, though he does not know why, "Any idea where our O'Driscoll is?"

Kieran goes to wave him over, but Arthur's attention is solely on Mary-Beth. She nods towards Kieran's direction, and he immediately feels the burn of Arthur's sharp gaze on his body. Kieran snaps his head back to the fire, avoids Arthur's gaze as he dismounts and saunters over.

"Kieran," Arthur greets as he sits down on a log. Right beside him. 

There's that blush again, heating his face up and making itself known. He wills it away. 

Arthur holds out his hand, unfurls it, and Kieran has to doubletake to actually _see_ what he has. Purple flowers, large leaves with fuzz at the end, long gnarled roots.

Burdock Root.

"You...you actually got it mister?" Kieran says, sets his nearly empty bowl down. He takes it gently. Kieran wonders if this is some sort of nasty trick Arthur's pulling, but Arthur never retracts his hand. Kieran's fingers graze against his calloused palm only slightly, and they both react like they touched fire. 

"Th-this'll help em' plenty." Kieran says. He thinks at that moment he could kiss Arthur for this, for helping out Kieran. If any of the horses dropped dead, they would all immediately blame Kieran for neglectfulness. 

Arthur clears his throat, looks away for a brief moment before he swivels his head back, blueish green eyes shining. 

"Be sure it does." Arthur says gruffly, acts like he didn't just touch hands with an O'Driscoll. Kieran nods slowly as he stuffs the flowers into his coat pocket.

"I'll be sure mister."

Arthur huffs in agreement. Kieran notices that he makes no move to leave, doesn't rock forwards onto his feet, doesn't plant his hands on his thighs. 

"You...you ain't leavin'?"

"You want me too?" Arthur chuckles, though he frowns when he sees that Kieran is not laughing, "Listen-uh..."

Kieran was in the middle of stooping over to grab his cooling supper when Arthur starts speaking in a hushed, awkward tone.

"I wanna apologize for my words yesterday. I...would've done it even if it weren't for the horses."

Kieran nearly drops his spotty tin bowl. He keeps a shaky grip on it, the spoon rattling ever so slightly against the brim. He swallows nervously, forces his mouth open to talk.

"Oh...uh, thank you Arthur."

Arthur nods sharply, licks his lips nervously as he shoots onto his feet. He looks like he wants to say more, wants to convey more, but he shuts his mouth and stalks away towards the caravans with a slight bit of dust coming from his boots. 

And Kieran...he finishes his supper in a quiet thoughtfulness, dumps out the inedible scraps into the fire, and finds Mary-Beth to help him write out a recipe for the exact same poultice he was about to make.

Mary-Beth agrees with a confused look in her eye, though she jots down everything he says in beautiful cursive.

"You mind tellin' me who this is for?" Mary-Beth titters as she writes away, her pen scratching at the thin piece of paper Kieran found laying on a box. Kieran watches her write with hands shoved in his pockets. He plays with the leaves on the Burdock, thoughts whirling around in his head, dirt gathering under his fingernails from the hair-thin roots. 

The burdock is like a treasure now, golden and priceless, shining in the chest that is his pocket, daring adventurers to come take it. The leaves feels soft against his fingers like peach fuzz, like a newborn calf's velvet coat, a contrast to what solid real gold would feel like. It feels sacred somehow; he's not sure that Arthur would've done this a few weeks ago, and he didn't even think that Arthur would've done this now. 

"Oh...nobody really," Kieran answers dumbly, eyes still fixated on the lovely little words she puts down on paper. Her hand flicks with every motion of letter, exaggerating the loops on the Gs and the Js, slanting the lines on her Ls and Cs. Keiran throws a glance to Arthur, who's taken to napping on his cot with his hands crossed over his chest and hat over his eyes. Mary-Beth smiles knowingly at him, but she does not say a word.

"Whoever you give this too is a very lucky person." Mary-Beth says as she finishes writing with a flourish of her wrist. She hands him the folded piece of paper, and winks. 

Kieran takes it from her hastily, tips his hat in thanks and slinks away to slip it onto Arthur's desk with a pounding heart. 


	3. it cannot wait

Kieran focused on the fishing rod in his trembling hands, tried to keep his eyes fixated on the barely seen fishing line bobbing in the water. He's hyper aware of the body standing next to him also with a fishing rod in hand and a line in the water, spurs clicking whenever he shifts weight. 

Kieran swallows, unsure if Arthur agreed to go fishing with him out of spite. To make his life even more _miserable_ than it was. Because right now, Kieran was having a rather hard time, a _miserable_ time not focusing on Arthur.

Ever since that damn Burdock root had been placed in his hands with a care Kieran never knew Arthur had, Kieran started feeling...well..._feelings _towards the outlaw. Not feelings of anger or frustration, but of affection and admiration. Respect, a healthy respect not based on fear. It was based on mutual understanding, it seemed with how Arthur was treating him better. Since Arthur admitted to helping Kieran even if it weren't for the horses, Kieran's been trying to work up the nerve to ask him for subtle things. 

And...Kieran hated to admit it, but a feeling of love also liked to pop out of literally nowhere whenever the other outlaw was around. Be it doing chores, brushing Winchester, _even_ Arthur sitting at the fire had Kieran's heart pounding in his chest like he'd just sprinted a mile nonstop. When Arthur would talk to him, Kieran would stumble over his words, literally trip over his own tongue. He'd turn into a lovesick schoolgirl whenever Arthur walked past or grumbled a _good morning_. Kieran's voice would crack when he threw back a greeting, and he'd spend the rest of his day wallowing in a rut of self-pity.

Ever since the Burdock Incident™ Kieran found that Arthur started talking to him more. Mostly about the horses, how they were doing, if Kieran needed more burdock, etc.

"_You need any more burdock?" _Arthur had asked one evening. They'd been sitting in a silence filled only with the fire popping, and drunken singing from Pearson and Bill and Uncle. Their combined voices flittered in the air, rising above the chatter from the other folk, drowning out the noise of the nightly creatures. It made Kieran wonder how the Pinkertons hadn't found them yet with all the screeching noise. Kieran had startled at first, too enshrouded in his bottle of booze to even think of talking to Arthur.

"_No thanks mister. Got plenty since you brought me the whole bush_." 

"_You didn't set a limit." _They had both laughed at that, like old friends it seemed. At least, it felt that way to Kieran.

"How're them horses?" Arthur's voice cuts through Kieran's hazy fog like a hot knife through butter. When Kieran peels his gaze away from his fishing line, he sees Arthur watching him with an intense gaze. Underneath it, Kieran feels pinned, as though he were a mouse trapped under hawk's talons. Kieran shifts to one side, and to his horror, he finds that his body chose to lean closer to Arthur.

"Better, thanks to you," Kieran's very surprised he does not catch on his words, doesn't stumble or mutter or stammer. It adds a little bit to his courage, and he finds he stops hunching his shoulders, "Them carriage horses don't limp no more and Branwen seems more lively."

At his name, the stallion lifts his head up from eating at a patch of wildflowers, his loud chomping dulling to a low grinding sound. Winchester is right beside him, also picking at flowers. To Kieran's dismay, they are burdock, the purple a contrast against the dull green grass beneath Branwen's hooves, "That Burdock really helped em'."

"I'm glad." Arthur chuckles as he snaps his line backwards, as though he felt a tug, causing droplets to cascade off the spiderweb-thin line. He let's it relax, and continues reeling with pops and snaps from the reel, "If you ever need anythin' else, ask me."

He sounds genuine. It makes Kieran's heart flutter like a songbird, and he has to fight against the dumb blush that dares to show on his pale skin. He settles for grinning down at the ground between his boots, hat covering his face so Arthur can't see him smiling like an idiot. His brain becomes a whirlwind of thoughts, daring him to ask Arthur to take him out of camp. Daring Kieran to ask Arthur to go fishing again. To go to the stables and get more shoes for the horses.

To spend more time with the other outlaw. 

It's exhausting yet exhilarating to have such thoughts, to have an emotion other than fear run through his body at camp. Kieran opens his mouth to ask if Arthur would like to go into Rhodes to get supplies when Arthur speaks in a gruff voice. 

"You get any bites there O'Driscoll?"

And then, just like blowing out a candle, Arthur snaps back to the gruff familiarity. Reverts back to his same old scathing self. It's frustrating to think Kieran's made overall progress in his friendship only to have it go back to the way things were. Like at Horseshoe Overlook.

"I ain't an O'Driscoll," Kieran repeats, repeats without even thinking about speaking those words. It's familiar, something he's repeated over and over again. To no avail of working, however, "I told you fellers a hundred times. I just rode with em' a few months. Just a runner."

Kieran nods towards where Branwen and Winchester are standing underneath a nearby tree, "Out with the horses mainly, bottom rung of the ladder."

Branwen stares at him with dopey chocolate eyes, ears flicking off bugs, hide twitching whenever one dared to land on his snowy white coat. The horse dips his head back down to pick away at sparse blades of grass hidden between the pebbles along the beach. 

"And to think that was the high point of your career." Arthur chuckles, but Kieran does not find himself in the laughing mood.

"Colm goes through men like cigars," Kieran points out, "Ain't like you folks. Don't even know my name none."

Kieran swallows, unsure if he should say what he wants to say or just leave it and hope for the best.

"I'm more Kieran Van Der Linde than Kieran _O'Driscoll_," He spits out the name like a bad taste in his mouth, as though it was snake venom festering in his mouth, "But I'm...I'm Kieran Duffy mostly."

The lock eyes, and Arthur stares at him for a moment with an emotion Kieran can't identify. He thinks he sees a strike of shock go over Arthur's features.   
  
"I hate to break it to you," Arthur speaks after a moment of silence, "But I don't think _Kieran Van Der Linde_ is gonna stick that easily," Arthur chuckles as he reels his fishing rod in. The honesty stings a little, like a waning bee sting, though Kieran holds his ground with chin tilted up. 

He hoped Arthur would agree full-heartedly with him on account of their growing friendship. A sort of _You're right there, Kieran _or _You've always been one, _but alas, those words would only exist in Kieran's skull, a part of a cliché fantasy that would never come to life. 

Kieran sighs as he continues reeling in his lure. A silence befalls them, as per usual for their conversations. Meagre small talk and large spans of quietness. 

"You think...you think Dutch trusts me now?" Kieran surprises himself for breaking the silence first with a ludicrous question that makes Arthur snap his gaze towards him. 

It's a million dollar question, a questions that's been on his mind ever since the drastic move to Clemens Point. He almost wishes he kept his mouth shut when Arthur hesitates to speak.

Suddenly, Arthur throws his head back with a booming laugh that echoes across the lake, one that spooks Branwen into a trot and has Winchester tossing her head in surprise. 

"Not in the slightest." Arthur finally speaks after a short moment of diminishing laughter.

Kieran watches as Branwen does a circle around the base of the tall oak tree before coming to a stop, nose touching Winchester's cherry red flank, a rush of dust trailing after the stallions stubby legs. Kieran lets his shoulders slump in a sort of defeat.

"I can't win," He says mournfully, "I promise loyalty, and Dutch says '_b__ut you wasn't loyal to Colm' _and if I say I ain't got no allegiance with anybody, he says '_how do I know you won't turn on us then?'_"

Arthur looks at him, and for a moment, Kieran thinks he sees a flash of sympathy run through his eyes, "I don't know what you want me to say there Kieran."

Kieran stares at mottled, pebbly ground beneath his feet, stares at the waves that barely tickle the toes of his boots. 

What _could_ Arthur do? Dutch refused to listen to Kieran complain about not being equals, about being stepped on wherever he went. Dutch wouldn’t even give him the time of day much less _agree_ to anything Kieran proposed. 

Then Kieran's gaze lands on a standing Arthur who twirls his fishing reel methodically slow, who curls his lip whenever he can't set the hook.

Dutch would at least listen to Arthur. _Of course_ he'd listen to Arthur.

"Talk to him." Kieran says suddenly as reels his rod in the full way. He does not cast back out, and instead stands there with the tip of his fishing rod grazing the rolling lake. 

"I'm sorry?"

"Talk to him. Y'know? Say I'm not a bad person," Kieran gestures to his hip where a gun lay hanging, "I ain't woken up in the middle of the night wanting to kill all o' you."

"_Yet_."

"_Arthur_," Kieran stresses, and he really doesn't mean to say it in such a huffy tone.

Arthur sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose (something Kieran has seen Hosea do multiple times whenever things don't go right) and lets his hand drop dramatically to his hip. 

"I'll talk to him," Arthur says finally.

It's a moment of vulnerability, something Kieran has not seen with Arthur yet. Something in the back of his head swears strongly about kissing Arthur, about going up there and pecking him on the lips. Kieran thinks, watches, but he does not move.

Kieran opts to thank him instead of giving him a kiss, but his voice is stolen away when Arthur speaks again, "But only once. If it don't go well, it ain't happenin' again."

Suddenly, Arthur's shoulders set, and he stares back out towards the glass-like lake. All that vulnerability is gone now, replaced with the gruff outlaw Kieran has grown to know.

And for that, his heart beats a sad, forlorn beat, grief-stricken at the missed chance of a maybe kiss.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."


	4. i'm yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually finished something wtf am I feeling alright? Joking, joking, but seriously tho

Kieran's drunk.

So very _very_ drunk.

Drunk enough that he doesn't even know where he's walking too when his mind decides to plod along the worn down path circling through camp. His boots knock against each other with dull thuds, threatening to trip him up and tumble into someone unsuspecting.

Kieran nearly did it with Ms. Grimshaw, nearly fell flat against her chest when his boot caught against his other heel. He had muttered a sloppy apology, and she had growled something along the lines of, "_Drunken bastards, the lot of_ _you,"_ before she stalked away to take cover from the impending rainstorm. Kieran almost tripped into someone _again_ while Dutch was shouting over the roar of thunder towards the main campfire, something about having _faith_ and _to trust him_. 

_"I know what I'm doing here. And I have a plan to get out of this incestuous godforsaken hellhole those ingrates out there call a home."_ Dutch's gravelly, low voice had carried over the camp, reached Kieran's ears, which had turned pink from booze. It distracted him so much that he almost stumbled into an unsuspecting Mary-Beth, whom had been sipping at her own beer. 

That would have probably been the end of him, the final push for them to shoot their resident O'Driscoll in between the eyes. 

There wasn't a single soul in camp on edge after Jack was returned from Angelo Bronte's mansion in Saint Denis. 

Arthur had done little to regale the tale on how they got the boy back, and John hadn't said a single word regarding the incident. _Graveyard_, and _bastard_ were the only words Kieran picked up on from his spot near the treeline, tucked away from everybody, smoking at a barely lit cigar courtesy of the flames provided by the fire. He gave them their space, their breathing room so they could reunite with Jack without having to worry about the same man who got him captured in the first place. 

There was a part of him that wanted to wander over towards Arthur, to sit and talk with him, to ask about how they got Jack back, to just _talk_. To merely be in his presence, to feel safe and welcomed. But he felt as though he did not have permission to do so. 

So, he had stayed by Branwen and brushed his already clean mane with a wiry brush and watched the gang out of the corner of his eye. 

He'd already been accused multiple times it was his fault Jack got captured by revengeful Braithwaite's angry over stolen moonshine and burnt, shrivelled crops. A stolen child proved to be the motivator for the Braithwaite's demise; Kieran heard that Dutch burnt her house down and left her there to rot in the ruins. 

He had only gotten up to get a bottle of whiskey to soothe frayed nerves when Karen had called him over with a sparkling bottle in her pale hand, "Come join us for a drink O'Driscoll!"

Kieran had looked at her in surprise. Karen had beckoned him closer and shoved a full, cold bottle in his unsuspecting hand. He had nearly dropped it right then and there.

"Should be celebrating with us." Karen had said as she brought the clear glass to her red lips, "Like it or not you're part of this gang now."

"And if I don't like it?" Kieran had tried joking, fingernails tapping against the bottleneck as he struggled to keep from turning tail and running back towards his cozy fire. He had a feeling the men wouldn't want him to celebrate their return of Jack. Karen had frowned, but only for a second before she tilted her head back and laughed. 

"Then none of the men here would have any qualms shootin' you."

It was meant to be a joke, one that he should have laugh at to entertain, _amuse_ Karen. But he did not find himself in such a joyous mood, only stared at the brown liquid swirling around in the stout bottle. Despite this, she had nodded to him, expecting him to drink up. 

And so he did. 

Titled it back so far it came rushing out and down his throat, resulting in it hitting the back of his esophagus and sending him into a sputtering mess. Karen had chuckled at him, a murmured “_Lightweight” _barely heard over the rushing in his ears from his coughing fit. When he finished the bottle with barely hidden grimaces, she fed him more alcohol.   
  
The bottles melded into one another, mashed time together until he couldn’t figure out where he was and what hour it was. All he knew was that it had started raining at some point when he was too busy hitting the alcohol. Got his boots soaked and clothes chilled, but the booze kept him warm. 

Now here he was, stumbling over his own goddamn feet, splashing through ankle deep puddles gathered from the downpour (now reduced to a sprinkle) and wishing he hadn’t drank so much.

Incoherency blinded him, smeared his vision until the fire looked as though it were an orange and red streak. There were dark figures sitting around the cusp of the fire, feeding off the warmth in an attempt to stay outside away from the dark hallways of Shady Belle. Shady Belle is a looming giant in the night, boards illuminating slightly by the wavering fires. 

He tries to go past it, gave it a wide berth so he didn’t fall directly into the hungry, sizzling flames, and to avoid whomever was sitting by the fire. The fire looked as though it was dying slowly, the smell of wet wood hitting his nose, creating a sense of ease in the middle of the chaos inside his very drunk brain.   
  
”O’Driscoll boy.” 

Kieran recognized that voice from anywhere.  
  
Arthur Morgan. 

He is sitting around the somewhat crowded fire with Javier picking at his guitar and Swanson at the far end, plopped down on a log, drinking straight from a large clay bottle of moonshine. Arthur, also with a full bottle in hand, beckoned him closer with a single wave of his hand.   
  
“I ain’t an O’Drisscol,” Kieran let his tongue slur the word a little too long, earning a slight smirk from Javier, “I told yous all thousands of times.” 

The figures at the campfire do not react to his drunken speech, though Swanson finally puts his moonshine down onto his lap. 

Arthur, probably the only sober one left in camp, the only one with dry tongue, smiles at him. It lasts longer than a moment, and Kieran catches him trying to hide it with a poor excuse of scratching his chin. 

_“_Got some liquid courage huh?” Arthur teases, a lighthearted glint in his eye that sparkles in the fire. Kieran stares longer than he needs too, lost in the blue waves of Arthur's eyes. They're calming, a focal point to anchor himself on, stops the swirling in his brain and the smear vision covering his eyes. When he blinks again, the moment is lost, and he's back to being lightheaded and buzzed. 

"Just a bit. Maybe only twoish bottles." Kieran doesn't realize he holds up three fingers, doesn't realize he nearly sways into the fire. Arthur, however, does. 

"Think you had a bit more than two, Kieran. You ain't exactly standin' still." The way Arthur says Kieran's name has warmth blooming across his chest, a tingly feeling that spreads throughout his entire body, chases away the feeling of loneliness that has nestled deep inside him. 

It's gone in an instant when Arthur stands up slowly, an arm outstretched to grab at Kieran's forearm. Kieran feels his fingers ghost over his jacket sleeve, a welcome warmth contrasting against the coolness the rain has brought on. Kieran nearly leans into Arthur's hold. 

"Maybe stand away from the fire. Don't need you fallin' in, 'specially now." Arthur suggests as he leads him a few steps away. When Arthur lets Kieran's arm go, the freezing cold flees back to where Arthur's fingers were once against his skin. He shivers involuntarily. 

Arthur notices his body quivering and there is concern swimming within his eyes. Kieran finds himself unable to look away from his face, his chiselled jaw, stubbled chin, freckled skin. His brain wants him to lean forwards and seal the deal, but there is something holding him back. 

Warning. _ What ifs_ cloud his brain, warn him of the consequences if he were to press his lips against the other's cheek, to feel the skin under his mouth, to _want_. 

Arthur gently takes a hold of his arm again, unsure and light, allowing Kieran the option to pull away if need be. Kieran thinks its ridiculous; why would he want to move away from the other man?

Kieran smiles, albeit drunk, "I'm cold."

He states it plainly, skin shivering ever so slightly at his own words. He _was_ cold; the rain was soaking through his clothes, sliding down his warm body and soaking into his muscles. It created an ache that could only be healed by the warmth of Shady Belle, which was currently sat a few metres away from them.

Everybody had already moved away, huddling down under tents or hunkered in Shady Belle, hiding away from the rain and the freezing cold storm. 

"You ain't sleeping out here, are you?" Arthur asks quietly. Rain dribbles off the brim of his hat, keeping his face and hair dry and safe from the storm. 

Kieran shakes his head, and he doesn't even realize he's walking away until he's at the wooden, crooked steps of Shady Belle. Uneven, tilted, rotting and old, they are not meant for a blackout drunk man to climb up.

Unfortunately, the thought never crosses Kieran's mind.

When he takes his first step, he nearly falls backwards from imbalance and poor judgment. 

"Woah, woah woah!" Suddenly, Arthur's beside him with a hand on his elbow and the other splayed between his shoulder blades. He catches Kieran's falling, soaking wet body with what seems to be care. The smell of wood and horse floods Kieran's senses, provides a sense of relaxation and relief. 

"Since when did yous cared about me Mr. Arthur?" Kieran slurs drunkenly, a joke that he chuckles at himself. Arthur tilts his head down, as though he were hiding something. Even in the dark, Kieran can see the tips of his ears turning bright cherry red. 

"Just lemme help your drunkass up there." Arthur says in a low mumble. He keeps his hands on Kieran's body, strong and reliable, and it's warm against his cool skin, "Don't want you fallin' down and breakin' something important."

Kieran smiles without even meaning too, chuckling dumbly. Sober Kieran would have been mortified, but drunk Kieran didn't see the worry in it. 

True to his word, Arthur helped Kieran up the stairs, foot by foot, step by step. It's long, painful, as the steps were slippery and mossy, creating a rift between traction. He slips a few times, nearly brings Arthur down with him. Arthur stands strong though, an anchor for Kieran to hold onto, literally. His fingers were entrapped in Arthur's blue plaid shirt, wet from rain, the fabric rough against his fingers. Kieran used it as a sort of anchor too. 

Finally, finally, they get to the top of the _three_ step stairs, and Kieran lets go of Arthur's shirt. Reluctantly, Arthur removes his hands from Kieran's back and elbow.

Kieran goes to open the front door, white paint cracking and wood chipping away, but he misses the doorknob a few times. Tries again, fails, and tries again. Misses it. Kieran is too drunk to comprehend where he's meant to put his hand on.

"Shit, just lemme..." Arthur reaches around him and pops the door open, hinges squealing against each other. 

Inside, it smells stale and old, rotting wet wood creating most of the scent. There are a few floorboards heaved up from years of erosion, walls slightly concaved in from strong gusts of wind pounding against it. Inside, it's even cooler. Bullet holes provide a way for wind and rain to sneak in, making the floor wet and the air miserable. 

"Much obliged sir," Kieran salutes with two fingers on his temple, smiles dumbly. Kieran stumbles in first, much like a drunkard returning home after a long day of drinking and riding. He nearly tumbles onto his knees when Arthur grabs the back of his blue jacket and hauls him back up.

He's wheeled around, and pressed flat against Arthur's chest, so close that the brim of their hats fold up against one another and threaten to topple each other off. 

Arthur's eyes widen in surprise, "Oh, uh..."

Kieran stays leaning against him, liquid courage the driving force for his behavior. No way would he have been that brave when he was sober, nor would he have even considered Arthur helping him up the stairs. 

"You got real pretty eyes, Arthur." Kieran states simply, plainly after a moment of gazing at each other. Those eyes...unique. Beautiful. Complimented the rest of his face, blue little oceans resting in his irises. Breathtaking.

Arthur stammers for words, but he cannot form any. It is incoherent, a jumbled mess of what Kieran understands as, "No..well...depends on who's lookin' at em. They ain't the most intelligent-"

Kieran silences any more words with a single kiss.

They both reel at the sensation on their lips, Arthur's eyes springing open in surprise and Kieran's closing in absolute bliss. He focuses on the feel of it, the feeling of another person against him. Arthur's warm body is pressed flush against his, his bulky arms wrapping around Kieran's skinny body with a mousy hesitance. Kieran feels engulfed in the man's body, solid and warm and comforting.

Kieran's hands rest on Arthur's hips, lightly, and for the first time that night, he's scared that Arthur will shove them off. Arthur does not move. 

Against his own accord, Kieran's mouth opens and they deepen the kiss. He's surprised to feel Arthur doing the same. Somewhere in the chaos of it all, Kieran's hat falls off his wet hair and onto the ground with a slight _thump_.

Kieran wants to stay like this forever. It seems he is going to get his wish; he lost his balance somewhere along the lines of their kissing, a balance he could not get back at all no matter how hard he tried. 

He wants this so badly that he's perfectly okay with staying like this until sunrise. 

It seems Arthur wants this too. 

They stayed like that for a very long time; hugging and kissing and relishing the feel of the other's warmth. 

It's Arthur who pulls away first; Kieran is not expecting the sudden movement when Arthur's tilts his head back. His lips smash against Arthur's neck painfully, though the alcohol running in his system numbs it. Arthur grunts at the warm feeling, and Kieran doesn't feel like stopping.

"Y-you sleepin' anywhere tonight?"

Arthur's breath hitches as Kieran mumbles a reply into his neck, "The floor."

Kieran turns his head towards the place under the window, floorboards heaved up from moisture, rotting and old. It hurt his back and hips something fierce, but it was better than the hard dirt on the ground outside, "Ain't too comfortable but better than outside."

He can feel Arthur swallow hard, Adam's apple bobbing up and then down in a sharp movement. His arms wrap tighter around Kieran's shoulders, a vice grip of nerves.

"Come upstairs. With me." Arthur's voice is so quiet that Kieran has to strain to hear it. Kieran lifts his head up, stares at Arthur. 

"You want me to sleep with you?" 

He thinks for a moment that Arthur's joking around, playing him like a fiddle, trying to get him exposed to the world so it can laugh at him and joke and cast him out again.

But all he sees in Arthur's eyes is love, truth. Hopefulness. 

It makes his heart ache more than it is already. 

And for the first time in what seemed to be forever, Kieran sees Arthur smile.

"Why not?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for putting up with my spastic updating schedule :)  
its been a whole decade since I posted hahaha


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